The Dream
by bethalaina
Summary: While waiting in a rainy hideout, Hermione is joined by someone she used to know...and finds out that maybe she hasn't really felt awake in years. A/N: The verses are from Edna St. Vincent Millay's "The Dream". Disregards DH. BRAND NEW, just on LJ 4/24/10


Even if the panes in the small windows hadn't been so filthy, Hermione could not have seen through them. Most days, rain beat against them in cold grey sheets. The rare days without precipitation still seemed to threaten it, with heavy clouds and wind whooshing through the tall grasses around the desolate shack.

The rickety door barely kept out the flooding waters, and droplets forced their way in the window frames. In several places, rusty tin buckets caught the roof's dismal tears. Hermione repeatedly thought, as she listened to the rhythmic pinging, that the Order could have at least found her an intact hideout.

From the outside, though, the shack was a perfect place to hide from those who knew her part in the recent espionage mission. The trees around the clearing hid it neatly from sight, and, should someone approach, the skyward weeds, rotted boards, and dirt-covered windows would convince anyone that the hovel hadn't been touched in years.

The inside of the cabin was slightly better than the outside. None of the leaks were in crucial places. There were two rooms, a small bedroom and the front room. The front room had a wood stove for heat and cooking, spelled so that the smoke would be invisible. On one side of the room was a kitchen area, with cabinets, counters, and a dishpan. The other side was a living area, with two old-fashioned rockers and a small table with three straight-back chairs, and a bookcase of Muggle literature.

The bedroom held a full-size bed with a slightly lumpy mattress, a nightstand, and a chest-of-drawers. The few clothing items Hermione had brought along didn't fill up half; she hadn't been expecting an extended stay. Neither had Remus or Mad-Eye—they had left her here with a week's provisions. At the end of the week, well over a month's provisions had appeared in a box by the water pump out back. A month later, another box had been there, with a note in Harry's scrawl. _We'll let you know when you're safe again, but it may be awhile. Stay put. Please._ Hermione had been using the second box's goods for a week now.

She didn't like staying put—didn't like not being part of the action that almost made her feel alive—but Harry's "please" had convinced her to stay. Mad-Eye had put it gruffly to her: her strategizing skills would likely be invaluable when they made it to the final battle; the Order couldn't afford to have her taken out at this point in the game. Of course Hermione knew that she was dear to other members for other reasons, but after the word about Voldemort spread, the Order had grown by leaps and bounds. Others could do the work for now. She would be patient, difficult though it was.

The boredom ate at Hermione more than anything else about this place, really. The first thing she had done was give the shack a thorough scrubbing—the Muggle way, naturally, because she had been discouraged from using magic after the necessary initial spellwork, just in case her wand was being tracked. Plus…well, Muggle cleaning consumed more time. And time, Hermione had in excess, floating through her repetitive days in a dreamlike state.

She had read every Tennyson poem and Austen novel on the bookcase repeatedly; this was one of the few times Hermione regretted being a fast reader. She had played every version of solitaire she could think of with a well-worn, mouse-nibbled deck of cards discovered in a kitchen drawer. Every nook and cranny of the little shack—except the necessarily-dirty windows for camouflage—was as bright and dust-free as possible. If only she could use this time to practice something useful, like healing charms!

This day was like all of the others—dreary, monotonous. A pot of thick stew bubbled merrily on the wood stove, scenting the house with a rich aroma. The beating rain was flung across the windows by an angry sky. Hermione, a colorful patchwork quilt her defense against the chill brought by the rain, was curled in her favorite of the two rocking chairs with a book of American poetry open against her knees. The crackling of the fire and the tin-pail raindrop music floated through the air, a relaxing background melody.

Hermione's eyes drifted across the yellowed page.

"Love, in my sleep I dreamed of waking,

White and awful the moonlight reached

Over the floor, and somewhere, somewhere

There was a shutter loose—it screeched!"

Hermione jumped as a knock sounded on the door. The book fell off her lap and thumped to a close on the boards of the floor. With her heart in her throat, Hermione waited silently, hoping fervently that whoever was on the opposite side of the thin wooden door was friend, not foe—praying that he or she hadn't heard the book strike the floor…but in the near-silence, who wouldn't have? For infinitely long seconds, Hermione felt her pulse beating all through her body. Who could it be? Most of the Order members who would have come to spring her from this almost-prison would not have bothered with a knock.

And then…the joyous sound of an Order password…_Fawkes_…muttered in a voice that was familiar to Hermione, but strange. Familiar like the faces in old sepia photographs: recognizable, but different, from another time and place, a reverie from a lifetime ago.

When Hermione opened the door, no one was there, but of course she would expect nothing less than invisibility from an Order member incognito. Wet footprints marred the floorboards, and then the dripping Invisibility Cloak swung off to reveal Viktor Krum's smile.

He told Hermione his story over a bowl of her steaming stew. He had been doing a similar job to hers—espionage—but his had been much more visual: the bad-boy Quidditch star who isn't quite sure if he wants to dabble in the evil of his Durmstrang roots or not. The wrong person had decided Viktor seemed a little too much on the "or not" side and decided to test him. Mad-Eye had pulled him from his task and sent him here to hide with Hermione, as he suspected she could use some company by now.

"Oh, and the vand, it is most certainly being tracked," Viktor added, "and in day or so mine vill be as vell. So ve must not be using the magic at all, says Lupin. Plus, I haff message from your boyfriend."

"He's not my—oh, whatever," Hermione sighed. She got tired of explaining her relationship with Ron. "What did he have to say?"

Viktor grinned at her, and Hermione was suddenly struck with just how handsome she still found him, although she hadn't seen him in several years, for he worked out of his own country. "He say, 'No funny business.'"

Ugh. Ron. Was it still jealousy, Hermione wondered, or worry that she'd be heartbroken, or something else? Perhaps just concern that she'd stop the odd quasi-relationship they had now. Besides, any 'funny business' she engaged in was her _own_ business. Hermione let that message go, offering to give Viktor the grand tour instead.

When she opened the bedroom door, Hermione realized just how closely they'd be living until something changed in the outside world. That full-sized bed, comfortably big just last night, was going to be pretty damn tiny with both of them in it, trying awkwardly not to touch one another. And there was not another single place to sleep in the shack, not enough quilts to comfortably pad the floor. She swallowed the strange lump in her throat and led Viktor to the chest to show him which drawers she was already using. Then, she perched on the foot of the bed to watch him unload his pack.

His hair was dark, a bit shaggy, falling into his face, lending to that bad-boy aura she knew he had been going for. She had liked it short and neat when they'd been kids, but Hermione liked it this way, too. The thought of how it might feel twined between her fingers traipsed lazily across her mind. The muscles of his arms bulged beneath his shirtsleeves, and his hands were large, rough, calloused, as he dropped jeans sloppily into an empty drawer. And his eyes were the same as ever, dark, expressive…twinkling with laughter when he caught her checking him out.

"You admire the scenery?" He laughed at her pink flush. "Is ok…I already admire you. Last time I see you"—his voice softened—"you vere beautiful girl. Now, I see you are stunning woman."

Hermione shot a glance at the cracked mirror above the chest. Her always-uncontrollable hair was pulled out of her face in a disaster of a ponytail, she had a stain on the collar of her baggy t-shirt, and she could see worry-lines forming at the corners of her eyes.

But she knew Viktor, or the boy he once was, and the glow from his eyes was sincere. He had some sort of gift, an inherent talent, for always seeing something special in people, for reaching in and finding what was underneath. He was the only man besides her daddy who had every called Hermione beautiful. And that talent was one of the reasons she had fallen in love with him at fifteen.

The rest of the evening was passed in pleasant chitchat by the stove. Viktor brought her up-to-date on the goings-on in the Order and the Ministry. No one she was close to had been hurt or worse, and they had even gained a few small victories. Eventually, though, the fire was dying down and Hermione was trying to stifle her yawning. Viktor reached across and cupped her face. "You are tired, and I am as vell. May I haff quilt to sleep in this chair?"

His words hung thick and heavy in the air, like summer humidity, like rain clouds before a storm. Like a deep dream one can't seem to awaken from. Like heat, like passion, before a long-awaited kiss.

"The bed," Hermione paused and swallowed, "the bed will hold us both. If you try to sleep in that chair, you'll be sore come morning." She smiled, a nervous smile. "Trust me; I've fallen asleep there before."

Viktor's brow creased. "You are sure?" he asked, voice doubtful but lined with a tinge of heat.

Later, lying carefully awake on her side of the bed, Hermione wasn't sure. Viktor's breathing was deep and even, had been for a long time, but for Hermione, sleep was as elusive as moonlight during a storm. Her mind was locked on another time, long past, when she had found herself in a bed with this same man. That time, they'd been so young, and careful not to push the limits quite as far as they'd both wanted to. His arms had held her close—sinewy, not the rounded bulging muscles Viktor wore now as a grown man. Those same strong hands, already roughened, had caressed her, pleasantly scratching her skin, finding her secret places, and making Hermione gasp and moan with pleasure in his ear. Viktor's soft, full lips had kissed her, teased her, earlobes, neck…lower. And in the end, Hermione had thought she would die from never finding out what fully making love with Viktor Krum would have been like. If they had, she wondered, would he have been able to fall asleep so easily tonight in this bed? Or would he have lain awake, fighting the need to touch her again—the same need Hermione was desperately trying to temper?

The sleep Hermione caught that night, and the next, and the next, was peppered with dreams based in memories that went farther. The man was pure temptation.

But in the daytime, Viktor became a friend again. They discussed numerous things, from magical theory to the Muggle books on the shelves. Opinions flew, thoughts danced around the room, and Hermione felt pieces of her soul coming alive that had been hiding for years. She thought at first that it was just relief at not being alone, after the long days with no one to talk to, but soon she realized it was more than that.

It was just Viktor.

What woman doesn't want an intelligent man, an attractive man, an interested man, listening to her thoughts? Watching her with deep, smiling eyes while she goes about her day? Offering to help every chance he can, pumping water, sweeping floors, washing dishes? What woman wouldn't swoon when the first brave flower of spring that dared to risk the torrential downpours found itself in a glass jar in the small wobbly table? And the touches—innocuous touches, like a palm on her back or a brush of his hand against her arm—drove Hermione out of her mind.

Viktor had been at the shack a couple of weeks when a true-blue tempest blustered in. The storms Hermione had seen before had nothing on this one. Thunder made the dirty glass in the windows clatter with every burst, and the _pings_ in the rusty tin buckets sped up to a staccato song. Hermione would have sworn that the wind was shaking the thin wooden walls.

Despite the raging weather, she was cozy, comfortable, at the table with Viktor, watching playing cards leave his big, sexy hands.

"I vant to—May I haff ask you a question?"

Something in Viktor's voice struck a weird and wonderful note in Hermione, and she wondered why. Of course he could ask her anything he wanted, she informed him.

"The first day I come, vhen I call Veasley your boyfriend, you say he is not, but you stop during saying. Vhat does that mean? Is he?"

Hermione took a deep breath. "Ron and I…well, it's odd, but no. He isn't. I am some sort of best friend slash sister slash ego-saver-person for him. We can talk about lots of things—well, not quite like I have with you this week, but we do talk—and I'm there for him, and if one of us needs a date somewhere, we're available. And, because Harry and Ginny are together and we're usually with them, everyone just assumes…but it isn't like that. I'm not attracted to him. For a little while I was, but our personalities don't seem to work that way together."

A slow, lazy, beautiful smile slowly spread across Viktor's face. "So you say…you are free?"

Hermione's breath caught in her throat for an instant. "I'm free."

"And Veasley's…varning? 'No funny business?'"

"That's just Ron," she answered, waving a hand in the air. "It's nothing. Not that I'm, ah, asking for funny business or anything."

Viktor chuckled and reached for her hand. "Do not vorry. Vhen you ask for funny business, I vill know it."

From there, the fire spread. Hours later, with the storm still raging outdoors, another storm was created inside. Tearing his lips from hers, Viktor's ragged voice murmured, "Sveetheart, kiss like that is simply begging for funny business."

Hermione's lips nipped at his neck. "Are you going to make me keep begging?"

With something very close to a growl, Viktor rose from the chair, bracing Hermione's ass with his palms. She wrapped her legs around his waist. Leaning her against the wall by the bedroom door, he kissed her again, lashing her tongue with his, slowing down, tormenting her lips, and pressing his body against hers. After an instant—after an eternity—he carried her to the bed and followed her body to the mattress with his own. Clothes came off. Viktor dipped his head low, pausing to flick Hermione's belly button with his tongue, and then tortured the throbbing between her legs with his tongue. When he sucked and nipped her turgid little button, Hermione gasped and shrieked at the spurt of moisture.

Hermione could see the sheen of her juices on Viktor's open, panting lips right before he kissed her again. His passion-fogged gaze cleared briefly as he murmured, "I haff vaited so long for this! I loff you again…perhaps I loff you still?" His voice was soft with a hint of gravelly passion. "I am so grateful that Moody sends me here to be vith you." He kissed her again, softly this time, and Hermione could still taste the sweet tang of her body. Viktor nudged her legs apart, and, shuddering, stretched her open wide with his body. The starlit oblivion swept through her mind, a million colors dragging her soul in circles fraught with passion and a soaring, devouring need, as her body danced in time with Viktor's. When, eons but an instant later, Viktor paused in his ministrations to catch his breath, the swirling colors tumbled from Hermione's mind just enough to let her to choke out, "Viktor…we can't work the spell. Don't come in me."

His eyes were obsidian with ardor now, and, as he slid his cock out of her, she saw mischief rising in them as well.

"Do you like to haff your ass played vith, sveet Herm-own-ninny?" Viktor's voice was dark like the smooth burn of good whiskey, soft and rough, and made the hairs on her spine rise and mysterious things tighten low in her tummy.

"I…" She felt his finger against her asshole. "I've never had it done before." He was pushing it in, slowly, wet with the free-flowing fluid from her other opening. It wasn't unpleasant…deliciously naughty, in fact. Viktor dropped his tongue down to lick her clit again, slowing teasing, testing, with that finger. It was…heat, a slow burn, and Hermione was quickly losing all coherent thought.

"May I?" Viktor panted in her ear, and Hermione couldn't answer; she just moaned and arched against him, her body begging for everything her mind couldn't form the words to ask for. He growled, and she saw everything leave his eyes except for basic, feral male desire. He replaced his finger with his cock, and worked it in slowly, gently, giving her time to get used to it before he gave her more. The feeling was like nothing she'd ever had before—hot, thick, full, almost desperate. She gave herself over to pure sensation and let her body move against him, encouraging Viktor to speed up. He plunged two fingers deep into her pussy and curled them, slid them, stroked and teased until the most intense feeling Hermione had ever had shattered her body, heart, and soul. Seconds later, Viktor collapsed on the bed beside her and gathered her into his arms.

Hours later, the storm—both storms—had calmed to a steady rain. Viktor was back in the rocker, with Hermione cradled on his lap and the quilt around them both. He caressed the soft skin of her back as they watched the raindrops cry from the ceiling to the bucket…_plink, plink, plinkety plink_.

Hermione whispered into the peaceful darkness, "It's almost like a dream, really, the time that we were apart. We're both different now, but the same in so many ways. I'm so glad you're back. It's like I've woken up now."

Viktor reached his long arm to the bookcase behind her and retrieved the book she had been perusing the day he'd arrived. He dropped it on her lap and it fell open, somehow, to the very poem she'd been reading when his knock sounded at the door, and Hermione read the last stanza.

"Under my hand the moonlight lay!

Love, if you laugh I shall not care,

But if I weep it will not matter—

Ah, it is good to feel you there."


End file.
